


West

by NateFraust



Series: Statues [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Post-Season/Series Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 00:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19262272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NateFraust/pseuds/NateFraust
Summary: "Another pin pushed in,To remind us where we’ve been.And every mile adds up,And leaves a mark on us.And sometimes our compass breaks,And our steady true north fades;We’ll be just fine."- South, Sleeping at Last---"She had always called him the 'stupidest' of their house; perhaps, after everything, she had been right."The Lame Lion returns to his pride's dominion.





	West

**Author's Note:**

> So. Hmmmm.
> 
> I had started this one-shot the day before the finale aired. I'm not going to go into whether I believe the ending is shit or not, because I'd need to rewatch everything before I can definitively say that, so just know that.

West

 

The colour of his house runs down his arm, rendering the leather and rough-spun cloak sodden and reeking. What few gold- or red-cloaked fools who remain in the rubble that was once a city don’t bother to look his way. He recognizes the stagger, the void behind those hazel and emerald eyes; it was the same one he’d glimpsed in reflections after the massacre on the Goldroad.

As he nears the Cobbler’s Square, covering his nose to ward off the overpowering stench of shit, rot, and chemicals, he sets his gaze to the Gate of the Gods. Good; the black-suits were nowhere to be seen, nor the screamers. This stupid idea may just work.

He does not smile as he haggles for his freedom, does not scoff or bluster at the outrageous terms the black-toothed tanner demands of him; he quietly accepts everything, hand resting light upon the simple polished pommel of his sword.

Memory forces his eyes shut, and the wound aches. He almost considers the black a mercy when it comes.

* * *

 

He doesn’t remember much, beyond waves of pain breaking on the shores of relief. Every time he looks at the puckered, patch-work stump, he wonders as to what happened, to his forearm, to the city, to the conqueror who’d stared at him with a gaze so like her mad father, he’d nearly flinched from the phantom feeling of steel biting into stone.

The servants are mute and deaf to his demands, until, finally, he manages to grab one and hold her fast.

“By whatever’s holy,” he says, hating the weak, mewling timbre of his voice, “ _ tell me _ what happened.”

The brunette wrenches herself out of his grip, and he curses to himself as the motion drags his body past the point of no return. Something pops inside when he collides with the rough stone, but he bites his lip to stifle a yell. Above him, he hears scoffing, then a grunt as slender, soft-calloused hands wrap around his one good arm and slowly drag him into a sitting position. The lightning-bolt that had ripped through him leaves him woozy, and his eyes droop, but a sharp, jolting slap to the cheek jerks him awake, and he stares up at the brunette. There is steel in those ice-blue eyes, and yet, not a little bit of… fear?

“Thank you..”

The lady (for what else could she be, with her style of hair and the silvery brooch at the base of her throat) crouches and grabs his stump with one hand and his left bicep with the other; helping him to his feet, she probes along his collarbone until, with one quick motion, the pulsing radiance of pain lessens and feeling begins to return to his forearm in tingles and pricks.

“Mira,” she says plainly, rotating his arm for a few moments before turning and grabbing a steaming cloth. Within minutes, the appendage rests across his stomach, and he nearly growls at the soothing warmth that seeps into his body.

“Of what house?” he inquires, rolling his eyes as she gives him a sharp look. “With how you carry yourself and the way you keep pawing at that tree at your throat,” he chuckles as her absent-minded hand snaps back to her side, away from the argent trunk and the glimmering blue sword held within, before continuing, “it’s not unreasonable to believe you’re a highborn lass. So, again, I ask, with no malice: which house do you belong to, my lady?”

The lady swallows, hands twisting into and over each other, before setting her shoulders and fixing him with a determined look. “I am Mira of House Forrester, Ser Jaime.”

“Ah,” he breathes, vaguely recalling a screeching about some “wooden whore of that wilted tart”, before nodding to her. “Thank you for your efforts, Lady Forrester.”

She looks at him for a moment, before huffing and walking out.

* * *

 

The road back to what he once was is… difficult, to say the least. He knows he can never be that bright-eyed boy of five and ten again, clashing with bandits and rapers and pale-faced men with lips like lines, will never again serve a just and noble lord, shall never know love and hatred in such full measure as he has.

All the same, he continues, walking among the gilded trees in Pinkmaiden’s overgrown orchard in the early morn, poring over what little remains of the Pipers’ library, and keeping himself busy and out of sight. With only one hand, he can hardly fathom the outcome of any fight coming out in his favor, and who knows how many men (and women, he reminds himself with a sardonic half-smile) want his head on a spike.

The tree-breasted men eye him with that same, all-too-familiar glint: the one that crashes against the bricks of straw that insist on his virtue, the mortar that demands he not complete his hunt. His jaw aches from the strain of his will, but even that fails as his gaze falls upon the object that has been rooted in his mind for some time now.

Lady Mira, perhaps sensing his attention, held up her hand and silenced her dottering retinue, before throwing him a glare half-full of disdain and a furrowed brow.

He feels his face flush with heat, but he lifts his good hand in greeting, as a courtesy.

Strangely, she returns the gesture with the slightest of upturned lips.

* * *

 

It comes at no shock to him when the Lord of Ironrath receives a raven from King’s Landing, a mere eight weeks after what the maesters were surely calling “The Battle for King’s Landing”, but the jesters and bards whispered as “The Redemption of the Dragon”. He muses over the brown-nosing nature of those of a lesser station as Asher, or “Lord Forrester”, as he demanded to be named, pores over the terse prose of his brother before fixing him with a hard stare that reeked of irritation.

“Well?” he prompted when the rugged features remained unmoved.

“Our  _ queen _ ,” he started, grinding out the title like it was glass between his molars, “has stripped you of your title as Lord Commander of the Queensguard, your knighthood, and any lands you claimed for  _ her. _ ” A snarl disfigures his face at the last word, but his nose remains wrinkled, like some great stench had offended him. “She leaves you with your life and the lands owned by your family, in exchange for an oath of fealty and the vow to never leave the westerlands again on pain of death, to be stated before the court at the Red Keep in a month’s time.”

He hangs his head, a low chuckle escaping him at the prospect of yet  _ another _ vow at the feet of yet  _ another _ dragon. Shortly, he lifts his gaze to Forrester, who’s watching him with narrowed eyes, and gives a short bow. “As Her Grace commands.”

* * *

 

The company of Northmen crest the Hill of Return, their garrons’ hooves crunching in the light snow as they, and their broken bounty, glimpse the outstretched city their kinsmen fought to claim from the Mad Lioness.

He hears a sharp intake of breath from beside him, and he glances over at the elder Lady Forrester -  _ Mira _ , a part of him chides another - as she stares at the ruined streets with shock and a hint of fear.

“First time back?” he asks.

She swallows, then nods sharply.

“Donnae worry, melady,” one of the company, a large-jowled man, declares. “We’ll protect ye.”

He quirks an eyebrow at the poor handling the man has on his blade.  _ Indeed. _

“Well,” he murmurs, quiet enough for only Lady Mira to hear, “into the mouth of the Seven Hells we go, then. Shall we?”

He spurs his steed into a trot downhill, whistling “The Lion Shorn”.

* * *

 

He doesn’t bother to ask as to whether or not he can send out ravens or receive ships and the like. Even with most of the gold torn out of the Westerlands’ mines, Lannisport serves as an important port of trade on the western edge of the Seven Kingdoms, especially with the Reach being ravaged by bands of rapers and brigands.

For all the good it does the realm at large.

Yawning, he glances over at the new round of missives and lets out a low groan before continuing to examine the map of mines currently owned by his subordinates, as well as the reams upon reams of notes and theories Tyrion had left behind at the Rock.

“Perhaps this ‘Maester Myles’ was onto something,” he murmurs, puzzling over the innumerably-copied words his brother had written down decades ago, before looking up at a sharp rap on the door. “Enter.”

Creylen hurries into the room, cradling…  _ something _ swathed in rough cloth. “You must see this, m’lord. A most  _ fortuitous _ finding by Maester Edric in the Banefort.”

“Yes, yes, on with it,” he waves, hooded eyes near to glazing over. He watches as the long-haired scholar pulls off the rough cloth to reveal a rather odd assembly: a pile of discs, some with the distinctive red-brown sheen of copper, and others with a dull, blue-grey glint, stacked one on top of the other, with sheets that reek of seawater separating the two, and a corked bottle with two thin strands of copper passing through the stopper; a small log of blackened paper was suspended between the two inside a pale yellow liquid.

“ _ Very  _ interesting,” he yawns, glancing out at the setting sun, “but what does it matter to me what you do in your free time, Maester, as I’m  _ sure _ you have quite a lot of nowadays?”

Silently, the other man grabs the two loose ends of the copper strands and touches them to the top of the pile. Something flashes within the bottle for a moment, then the liquid erupts into flame.

“Seven hells,” he swears, stumbling back at the abruptness of the sight. Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet and creeps over to the miraculous contraption; the flame in the bottle suddenly vanishes, like wine down the Fat Stag’s throat. He holds out his hand to touch the glass, to affirm it was no mummer’s trick.

The blasted thing is so very warm, nearly pleasantly hot, in truth. As he holds his hand to the glass, the log glows with a warm golden hue.

Swallowing, he eyes his sudden co-conspirator with a small modicum of respect and trepidation. “Who else knows about this?”

“Only us and Maester Edric, m’lord,” the man murmurs.

“Write to him,” he orders, mind whirring with this strange new information. “For now, the only people who know of this shall be us.”

* * *

 

At times, he wonders as to what the Old Lion may have thought of him now: a banished slayer of king and kin, who helped to save the realm from death incarnate and the winter that followed. Most likely, the man would’ve scoffed, claiming  _ the lion does not bow to the qualms and cares of his lessers _ .

What a fool Tywin had been.

Folding the sanction for another 50 tonnes of lionstooth and copper to be mined and sent eastward for the forging of more Durans, he drips a glob onto the sheet and stamps it before sitting back on the cushioned chair. Absentmindedly, he scratches at the stump, lost in thought, before starting at a knock at the door. “Enter.”

A face, eerily similar to his own nearly a decade prior, pokes through the creaking door, saying in a quiet tone, “Riders at the portcullis, m’lord, bearing the sigil of House Forrester.”

His heart quickens, as it has whenever he receives a scroll stamped with the sword-tree sigil of the Northern house. Clearing his throat, he stands abruptly, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in his burgundy doublet before moving towards the entrance. “Thank you, Dameon. I shall be down shortly.”

After greeting the weary retinue of knights and men-at-arms with the customary bread, salt, and wine in the foyer of the Great Hall, he excuses himself, leaving his tow-headed kin to mingle with the roughspun Northmen while he heads towards the First Gate. It does not take him long to find the godswood, and he has half a mind to curse whichever god controls the stones and the wind as his footfalls herald his coming with a chorus of deep  _ thmm _ s.

“M’lady,” he calls as he catches sight of her earthen-coloured hair, slowing his gait as she rises from where she kneels in front of the small, misshapen weirwood.

“Lord Lannister,” she responds, her mouth twitching.

“What?” he asks as her eyes narrow to slits. The twitching increases. “ _ What? _ ”

“Forgive me, my lord, but-” She frowns and points at him, or more likely his chest. “You have a… erm…  _ problem _ .”

“Don’t tell me it’s a tear,” he mockingly whines, patting at his doublet. “I’d  _ hate _ to have Cresten-”

He freezes at a wet, sticky feeling, and he draws his hand back to find a reddish-brown paste.  _ Oh, blast _ .

His head swivels to face her as she lets out a peal of laughter, and he squints in suspicion. “Anything you wish to tell me, m’lady?”

“No,” she snorts, hand covering her face as a mortified expression contorts her features.

He bows his head. “Alright, then.”

He looks away, about to shout for a servant, when a pressure on his chest stops him. He can see the fear in her eyes as their gazes meet, like some strand of light reflecting off a deep-forest pool, and yet…

“I- I-” Her voice wavers like a branch in a storm.

“Yes, m’lady?” He despises how his voice has deepened.

“I would- I would like to help you, m’lord.” She is earnest, eyes wide as if to plea for his acceptance.

“And I would gladly accept such assistance,” he purrs, feeling the warmth radiating off her… or perhaps that is simply his own.

“But would it not be more proper,” she murmurs, “to have one of your own subordinates assist you?”

“That can still be negotiated.”

She takes a step back, brow furrowing for a moment before smoothing out. “I believe I am missing certain…  _ customs _ at the moment, am I not?”

He turns away, eyes downcast. “Indeed. Luckily, you are just in time for the midday meal; I would be honored if you would join me, Lady Forrester.”

“Then by all means-” She beats away some stray patch of dirt before moving past him. ”-do lead on, m’lord.”

* * *

 

The Arbor Gold slides down easily enough as he watches the little specks scurry across the marble edge below. Tyrion would’ve called it “idiotic vanity” had he known about it, but in this moment, he simply does not care.

She had always called him the “stupidest” of their house; perhaps, after everything, she was right.

“To the unknown sea, and all th’ grumkins and merfolk ther’in,” he slurs, the alcohol in the bottle sloshing about as he gestures out at the wine-hued horizon, squinting as the sun slips further and further into the water.

Fighting the urge to curse as a knock startles his oh so precious sustenance out of his grasp, he watches the blasted glass tumbles through the air to crash against the rosy sheets of rock below. “Enter,” he growls.

“Forgive the intrusion, m’lord, but a raven has arrived at the rookery.”

“From where?”

“Erm… the sea, m’lord.”

He rounds on Creylen with a snarl. “Surely you don’t believe me to be  _ that _ bloody stupid, my  _ dear _ maester, to be taken in by tales of birds flying in from an ever-swallowing sea.”

The dark-haired man mutely hands over a slightly damp roll of paper. He opens his mouth to make another scathing remark, when his mouth goes drier than a Dornish sand steed’s, for there, marked in shadow and wax, is the sloping rise of a hill, with an oddly-shaped crescent hovering over it like a watchful eye.

“The counter-seal,” he breathes. Not paying his shifting maester any mind, he breaks the murky wax with his thumb and unrolls the message on the balcony. Moments later, the message drops from his trembling hand.

“M’lord?” Creylen asks, confusion clear in his voice.

“The lost has been found,” he whispers, eyes wide and gaze set on the speck at the edge of the horizon. “The last of the wolves has found the lost lion.”

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes:
> 
> \- The idea of Mira Forrester and Jaime Lannister as a pairing, romantic or otherwise, came literally from I don't know where; however, it is interesting as a concept, if you believe the Forrester clan from Telltale's GoT series to be a lesser copy of the Starks, given the fact that some people do pair Sansa and Jaime together. I personally believe that with Mira's experiences in King's Landing, as well as whatever shit she would have had to go through being married to Morgryn, she would have grown into a person capable of standing up to nearly anyone, particularly anyone related to or associated with the Lannisters. However, I also feel that Jaime is, while being one of the best characters in the series, simultaneously just as he described himself: "hateful"; thus, happiness and peace is not something that will ever come easily to him, no matter who he's with.
> 
> \- In this universe, no "epic 'oathsex'". I've slightly warmed to the idea of Braime, but still.
> 
> \- "Lionstooth" is raw zinc ore; according to Miles Traer of Stanford University, as well as extrapolation, the westerlands were once underwater in an age akin to the Earth's own Silurian epoch. This stage of submersion, coupled with the likely similar behavior to Earth's own geology, would have meant that the floor of the sea (what is now the westerlands) would have produced/upheaved the vast amounts of gold and silver the westerlands are known for, while also depositing the necessary components to create things such as voltaic piles (an early form of the modern battery), which are known as "Durans" in this story. A lot of the GoT stories I've read make it seem as though the Lannisters are running out of gold (though that can be disputed depending on how you look at it), so I came up with an alternative, while also somewhat solidifying the Lannisters as the ones to ultimately bring Westeros into a new era of technology a few centuries early.
> 
> \- A counter-seal is supposed to be embossed on the flip-side of a pendant seal, and is to be used as an added layer of verification. The Lannister counter-seal is meant to call back to the early coinage of the Kings of the Rock.
> 
> \- I've never been in as dire a situation as Jaime is in this story, so I don't know if I did his character justice.


End file.
